Notches
by Reality Obscured
Summary: Some scars can't be seen. Prowl/Jazz - friendship
1. Notches

-------------Written By: Reality Obscured-------------

------------- ------------- -------------

Title: Notches

Rating: T

Pairings: Prowl/Jazz – friendship with only hints of slight slash

Characters: Prowl, Jazz

Author's Note: This hits closer to home than many who know me would realize. Some notches are not physically visible…

Warnings: Mentions of hurting (cutting) oneself

------------- ------------- -------------

The small office had long since gone dark, the final datapads of work for the shift equally as distant. Shift… To be accurate, it shouldn't be defined as one. Shifts had times they started and ended. Defined edges with perimeters. He doubted if anyone had noticed the complete absence of shift times on the schedules of the command staff. Some "shifts" didn't have these so-called edges. There were small breaks and periods of rest in between, but it was as simple as he couldn't stop being Second-In-Command any more than Ratchet could stop being the CMO or Optimus could stop being the Prime.

Officers didn't have "shifts".

It was the reason he knew he was safe where he was. In the dark, away from the crew. Everyone believed he was working one of his late shifts. Nothing new, and nothing to be worried about. Possibly only two or three knew what he was really doing. Likely only one or two of that allotment knew that he was doing more than simply resting in the dark.

The sigh he vented as he leaned forward, hands over weary optics and elbows supporting him on the desk, spoke more of how utterly exhausted he felt than the boldest Spark pulse. Even here on Earth, where they had plenty of fuel and rest at their disposal, he felt drained. The stellar cycles had just gone on too long. Every crack his plating had ever sustained could still be acutely felt, every scar welded or left for self repair as though it was new… Some of the worst scars were the newer ones on top of the older. The body was only so big. Eventually the same places would be hit twice. There would be no room for anything new.

Was that what he was waiting for? One to finally cut so deep that a new word would have to be created specifically to label, to categorize, it? Not a gash or scar…but something entirely new?

Pulling back just enough to see them, the tactician focused on the small notches, healed into scars, that had been carved on the inside of his left forearm. The first had been made a long time ago, when Sentinel Prime had been deactivated practically right in front of him. It might as well have been. Since then, one notch had been added for every important thing to him that the War had taken. Sometimes it proved hard to make them deep enough that they would stay. His systems had proven stubbornly resilient. He needed the reminders to keep him fighting. He needed something to keep him out of the way of the next cluster bomb barrage or plasma fire.

More importantly, of why he couldn't let anyone else close. It meant more notches, more pain… More scars. Sometimes he believed he would be adding Bluestreak to the notches soon. There had been missions the gunner had been part of back on Cybertron that had prompted him to carry an energon blade in subspace in preparation for the moment. Perhaps, here on Earth, he still had several stellar cycles before that happened.

The door of his office hissed open. The light pede steps of the intruding mech had him rising from his seat, optics moving up to meet the visored gaze. A small ration cube was the offering presented to him. That's right. He had forgotten to refuel again. More important things had been cluttering his CPU here as of late. One would think that, logically, he would set an alarm for that sort of thing. As he had before, he would have likely gone until his HUD informed him that his energy levels were below 50%. His battle computer had problems functioning at full efficiency when it dipped that low.

Why Jazz had taken on the personal responsibility of seeing to his refueling needs had escaped him at first. It had confused him until he had worked out the meaning. He figured that Jazz was only watching out for him like the saboteur did all of his comrades. After realizing that, he'd accepted the friendship, and though he'd made no moves to return the gestures, Jazz hadn't seemed to mind.

But here on Earth, things had grown so much more complicated.

Since they'd awakened from their 4 million year long stasis, Jazz's actions had changed substantially. He was beginning to show new emotions, new actions to add to the equation. Working it into the information he'd kept stored in an equation in his logic center all this time, Prowl slowly added each knew factor as it appeared until only one conclusion came to him. It was as obvious as Devastator in a parking lot.

Jazz cared. He CARED.

To Prowl, this only meant that Jazz wanted to become another notch. Not that he knew about the notches.

"This ain't healthy."

No. It wasn't. He moved around to the front of the desk, easing back to lean against the edge. He knew he shouldn't…but he took the cube, offering a small smile in thanks. The gesture did as he thought, prompting a similar, equally soft smile to appear on the Porsche's lip components. If only he could bring himself to not keep this charade up, to keep leading Jazz on like this. He wanted to end this now, before he'd have to take the energon blade and…

"There are far unhealthier activities than sitting in my office with the lights off." He pointed out. "Should I bring up some of your more deviant activities?"

"It's all in the name o' stress relief." Jazz moved a little closer, leaning with one hand on the desk's top, the other hand hitched up on a hip.

"We each have our chosen outlets."

He took a drink of the low-grade energon. It didn't escape his notice that Jazz had edged minutely closer. The body language was all there. He didn't have to see Jazz's optics to know they'd been adverted momentarily. Prowl reminded himself he could end this now. He could—

"It's not too late." Jazz spoke up. Prowl checked his chronometer. 1930, local time. "Wanna go out on a drive with me? It'll be good t' get some fresh air in your system."

Random things like had been offered over the past three Earth weeks. Prowl had let them slide by, ignoring them by playing oblivious. The option to do the same here was open. "Bluestreak challenged me to a game of chess tonight." Not a lie. The younger Datsun had takne as hien to the human game of strategy and tactics. Even if he'd yet to win, that didn't stop him from challenging the tactician at practically every turn.

"Not until 2200." Jazz countered. Prowl wasn't surprised that he'd already asked around. "We won't be out that long. Promise."

Prowl sat the cube on the desk. "Jazz, I—"

"No, Prowl. I know what you're thinkin', an' this ain't another attempt to get ya t' spend time with me." Jazz suddenly held up a hand, his tone serious, his smile gone. "Ya seriously need to get out before ya go processor crazy. I'm doin' THIS as a friend. Nothin' more, 'k, man?" He waited another second before repeating himself. "Nothin' more."

The only regret he had was how fast Jazz was breaking him down, becoming another notch. It was only one night. "I was just going to ask if tonight was the meteor shower the human news has been predicting."

Nothing more, as Jazz had assured. He wondered if it would be too much of Primus to ask that this cycle of pain, of notches, could end tonight…


	2. Lies

-------------Written By: Reality Obscured-------------

* * *

Title: Lies

Rating: T

Pairings: Prowl/Jazz

Characters: Prowl, Jazz

Authors Note: Another fic inspired by real life events

Warnings: I think I can safely give this a T rating

* * *

The heavy clang of Prowl hitting the Ark's metallic floor resounded no farther than Jazz's soundproofed quarters. The berth was what stopped his momentum, his door-wings receiving the brunt of the abuse. He looked up, meeting optic to visor with his assailant, the dull ache of the dent in his jaw slowly reaching his sensory network. The ache was only matched by the errant electrical signals popping sharply in his data port when Jazz had brutally disconnected them.

After he'd found the files…

For one of the first times while he was in optimally working order, Prowl did not know what to do next.

"Why didn't ya just tell me?" The saboteur's stare and faceplate was set firm, neutral. The visage he wore on many of his missions. "We had to interface for me to find out?"

The truth came out smoother than he'd expected it to. "I hadn't intended on you finding out."

"I could feel that." The minute shift of a right hand, clenching tighter on itself. The visor illuminated barely a hue brighter. "Guess ya got careless, Prowl. Is that what ya really think about us?"

He started to get up, but Jazz was on him in hardly an astrosecond, his knee and weight pressed down on the Datsun-fromer's bumper. The berth dug even harder into the sensitive sensory panels, and Prowl grimaced, both not wanting to fight back and yet unable. He knew he deserved this.

Jazz grabbed Prowl's left forearm, holding it up so that Prowl could see. The tactician wanted to look away. "Ya weren't hidin' nothin, Prowl. I knew what ya were doin' with these, and no, I don't wanna be a notch. I wanted to be something' more."

The strained panels of his back groaned as Jazz let go, moving off of him. While Jazz recoiled his interface cabling, Prowl took this chance to stand as well, resealing his own hardware.

"It's not what it appears, Jazz." He said. "Just let me explain."

"What's there to explain?" Jazz frowned. "It was all right there, right in ya own data. Apparently ya get aggravated at the way I talk, walk… Slag, what about me DO ya like?"

"Please-"

Prowl had seen many faces of the saboteur. Sadness, happiness...even those facades that were faked. He'd never seen Jazz scowl… "So you're sayin' your own data is wrong?" Prowl went silent to formulate a proper reply, but Jazz took it as the answer. "Thought so. Accordin' to those files, I haven't done a single thing ya like. You don't even want me interfacin' with ya. Why else would ya be thinkin' about work while we were connected?"  
Jazz hit the door panel, not looking back as he turned and exited. Prowl vented some of the heated air that had built up in his body, shifting his optics from the door to the berth. Fresh scratches lined the metal from their recent activities. Even fresher ones were on the corner, lined with black and white paint transfer. The dent in his jaw could easily be blamed on anything, from Decepticon to fellow Autobot. Both factions had decked him in the face on more than one occurrence. Jazz didn't have to be indicted in this. He'd have to go to Ratchet for the other injuries. The CMO would demand and explanation but wouldn't be getting one from him. Not this time.

But the files…

He hadn't set his firewalls properly. A mistake he shouldn't have made and was now regretting. Those files were loaded with what negative attributes and traits he found in other Autobots. Including Jazz. By focusing on that when he felt his emotional programming take over, Prowl found that he could remain detached. To enough of a degree he could keep himself disconnected. No more notches could come about if he could just manage to set himself apart. And Jazz, as Head of Special Operations, tended to take some of the most dangerous missions. Threat of deactivation was a daily occurrence. As a tactician, he couldn't have that wearing on his CPU and hindering battle plans.

No, he didn't hate Jazz's music. He didn't hate the way he walked, spoke, or acted. No, he wasn't focusing on work during interfacing. He was focusing on those files. Jazz was addictive. Without being able to focus on their differences, Prowl knew he'd want to attach himself to the other without questioning himself once.

It was all too late now. There were too many lies. He looked at his left forearm. Could it all be salvaged?


End file.
